An Audience With the Pope
by Lacadiva
Summary: Scofield, seeking Pope’s help to exonerate Lincoln, abducts the former Warden at gunpoint. They’re doublecrossed, there’s a shootout, and Michael is wounded. Dr. Tancredi to the rescue – if she can forgive both men for their betrayal, and herself for fa


"Aiding and Abetting: An Audience With The Pope"

by

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence.

Disclaimer: Prison Break and characters belong solely to Fox Television, not me. I make nothing for writing this. I just get to smile a lot.

_**Summary: Scofield, seeking Pope's help to exonerate Lincoln, abducts the former Warden at gunpoint. They're double-crossed, there's a shootout, and Michael is wounded. Dr. Tancredi to the rescue – if she can forgive both men for their betrayal, and herself for falling for a "con." **_

_Note: I began writing this story at the end of the first season, but gave up on it after seeing the direction the new season was taking. However, when I saw the preview for the Feb 20 episode featuring Henry Pope (Stacy Keach) I decided to go on and post the first chapter anyway. It doesn't take into account the death of Gov. Tancredi, or the uneasy, flexible alliance between Scofield, Burrows and Kellerman, but just a direction I wanted to play with while waiting between seasons. I hope you'll like it and review._

Henry Pope hated being alone. It wasn't fear or some such aversion to not having people around. He had just grown accustomed to his wife being there for him. Always. So when those rare occasions that Judy had to be away presented themselves, Pope greeted them with smoldering disdain and irritation.

He lay atop his bed, not under the covers, still dressed, reading and re-reading the papers, glasses low on the bridge of his nose. He tossed the paper to his wife's side of the bed in frustration. He couldn't read anymore. His eyes were tired, though he knew if he tried to sleep, it would not come easily.

He would have turn on the television and watched the news, but he knew what the anchorpersons would be reporting. What everyone was reporting, what the newspaper he'd just read for the umpteenth time was rehashing – the escape from Fox River, and his subsequent dismissal.

He was grateful that mob boss John Abruzzi was no longer a threat, and almost sorry to hear that he was dead in what some call a violent shoot out, and others called suicide-by-cop. He was sad to hear about the one they called "Tweener," that he had tried to escape once in custody and had also been shot. It seemed dubious - Pope had a hard time imagining what kind of threat the young man could possibly have posed to an armed, trained Federal Officer. But why would the authorities lie? They were the good guys, after all.

The rest of the cons had not yet been caught. And there was not much intelligence on the whereabouts of Lincoln Burrows, or his brother – the mastermind behind this entire escape plan -- Michael Scofield.

Scofield. Pope bristled at the thought of the young man. He had trusted Scofield. He had admired his intelligence, and thought he'd seen a spark of something different in him. But he turned out to be no different from the rest of the cons. He was a user. Unwilling to take responsibility for his own actions, or more to the point, pay for them. Blaming everyone for his brother's and his own poor choices. Running like a couple of wild dogs on the loose. He could've stopped them. If only he'd been less trusting, less willing to think there was something salvageable in Scofield.

Pope took off his reading glasses and tossed them on the side table, and wished his wife were there. She'd have kind, encouraging words for him. She'd have loving, patient things to say. Unlike the reporters who continued to insult him by questioning his competence and commenting negatively on the way he chose to run Fox River. They had a field day telling the public how former Warden Pope was found taped to a chair, unconscious, locked in his own office closet. Humiliating.

He rubbed his eyes and thought about how his wife was getting along in Milwaukee. A sick family member – niece? cousin? – needed a bit of loving care and attention following a difficult surgery. He wished he were being the recipient of his wife's loving care right now. All he could think about was his failure to keep Fox River secure. His fault. Not his fault. It didn't matter. The press and the DoC had hung him out to dry. Unemployment was not easy for anyone, but a man his age, and in his former position, was going to have a difficult time figuring out what the next step should be.

Pope was not a drinking man, but tonight, he felt it was appropriate to make an exception. Somewhere downstairs were a few bottles they usually kept on hand for company. His wife occasionally sipped peach schnapps. He usually avoided anything stronger than a decent red wine. Drinking reminded him too much of the days when he was less than faithful to his wife. And he'd done whatever he could to suppress or kill all memory of how he had nearly destroyed everything and everyone he truly loved because of selfish infidelity.

Pope slipped off the bed, jamming his feet into old loafers and headed downstairs quietly, even though there was no one else in the house to disturb. He moved through the dark, perfectly kept living room, into the dining room and into the large kitchen. Without turning on a light, he reached for the door to the small wine closet he had built for his wife a few short years ago. Once opened, he knew exactly where the red wine was kept and reached for it, but changed his mind. Instead, he went for the schnapps. He didn't particularly like schnapps – too sweet for his taste – but just the smell of it would remind him of his Judy.

He pulled the bottle from its place and was about to reach for a glass when he heard a noise. He attributed it at first to house-settling noises. Old places like this had strange creaks and sounds that could be mistaken for someone moving about.

But then he heard it again. And Henry Pope knew he was no longer alone.

He turned slowly and saw a silhouette in the darkness by the kitchen entrance. Suddenly the room was bright with light. Pope squinted and held the bottle up as if to use it as a weapon. When his vision adjusted to the light, he recognized the intruder. And he realized he was a little afraid of him.

"Scofield!"

"Hello, sir."

"What in blazes…"

Pope's eyes fell upon the gun in Michael's hand. Just like the shank the young man had used days earlier to force the warden to comply, the gun looked uncomfortable, out of place in Michael's artist's hands. But it was no less threatening a sight.

"Easy, son. Don't do anything stupid."

"I'm not in the habit of doing stupid things deliberately."

"I beg to differ. You just broke into my home," Pope said.

"I apologize, but I didn't feel I'd get a warm welcome if I rang your doorbell."

"What do you want? Money? My car? The keys are on the table in the hall."

"Thanks for the offer, but I have something much more substantial in mind," Scofield said. " I need you."

"How's that?"

"I need you to come with me."

"That's not going to happen."

Michael smiled, just a little. "Now I beg to differ."

Scofield took a step forward. Pope took a step back, raising the bottle.

"Unless you're going to drink that, or bring it along, I suggest you put it down," Michael said.

Pope set the bottle on the counter and straightened defiantly. "I'm not going anywhere with you, son, so you either use that thing or get the hell out of my house now."

"Henry," Michael said in a low voice, as if sharing a secret, "with all due respect –"

"Respect?" the warden spat. "What do you know of respect? You taped me to a chair and locked me in a closet. I'm the laughing stock of correctional facilities around the country because of your fancy little escape. Because of YOU, rapists, murderers, and thieves are back on the streets."

"Don't you think I would have done things differently if I could?"

"No! Because you're selfish! Selfish and arrogant and too dang smart for your own good!"

"I had to get my brother out of there. If he'd stayed he'd be dead by now!"

"And the world would've been a little bit safer."

"My brother is innocent."

"Well, now he's a fugitive from justice, as are you. Any chance of exonerating your brother went out window the moment you went over that wall."

Michael lowered the gun, just a bit.

"I have proof."

"Proof of what?"

"My brother's innocence. Proof of payoffs - emails, memos, bank statements - orders to kill my brother to suppress the truth. Affidavits, signed testimony regarding doctored videotapes. Documented dirty cash deals to conceal, corrupt and inveigle. Did you know a hit man was hired to kill Lincoln while he was in Fox River? That an attempt was made on his life more than once, right under your nose?"

Pope remained silent.

"Did you know," Michael continued, taking a step closer, "that Lincoln's release to see his son LJ was really a set up? That it was no accident when that truck collided with the DoC transport? That collision was choreographed, timed down to the last second. Their orders were to kill Lincoln and the correctional officers that traveled with him. Men in your employ. If the accident didn't kill him, there was an operative with a gun waiting to clean up whatever witnesses that Mack truck left behind. You can swear you knew nothing about it, but when this information hits the papers, you're going to look like an accessory. Or a fool."

"Now you just wait a minute, son. As far as I knew..."

"Then you didn't know very much, sir. That's why I'm here. To educate you. And to enlist your help. I want you to come with me. I'm meeting a man tonight. A man who claims to have information for me, information that will make all the pieces fit."

"Why do you need me?"

"Because when you see all the facts, how it all lines up, falls into place, then maybe you can use whatever clout or influence you still have to get this into the right hands. Prove my brother's innocence, and help expunge his record. I can't do that. I don't have access. You do."

"Why not just give me this information? I'll see that it gets into the right hands, if what you're saying is true," Pope pleaded.

"The right hands, meaning Governor Tancredi?"

"That's as good a place as any to start."

"What if I told you he's involved in all of this?"

"Now you're talking nonsense, boy," Pope spat. "Governor Tancredi is above reproach. An honorable man -- "

"An honorable man…Brutus was an honorable man. Perhaps the Governor was, too, when he first took his oath of office. Ambition has a way of changing honorable men. Or haven't you been keeping up with national politics? Governor Tancredi has higher aspirations."

"That's hardly enough to convict a man of his reputation with bending the law."

Michael laughed. "I can't wait to see the look on your face when you realize the truth, and how you were a pawn, just like my brother."

Pope ran a hand over the top of this head. This wasn't going well. It was going to be a very long night.

"Suppose this little conspiracy theory you're espousing turns out to be real," Pope said. "What are we looking at here? Who else is culpable?"

"Let's just say the stink rises higher than you could imagine. Will you come with me?"

"Put the gun down, Michael, and I'll consider it."

Michael held the gun up a bit higher.

"Let me call the authorities," Pope pleaded, "tell them what you know now. I'll vouch for you, see that you're given a fair opportunity to share what you know."

"In an ideal world that might work. But you and I both know this isn't an ideal world."

"This isn't some rouse to make me a hostage, is it? Some way to use me to get you and you brother out of the country or something?"

"If I needed a hostage, I would've brought you along the night we bailed."

"How long will all this take?"

"A few hours. I'll have you back before sunup."

"What if this informant of yours turns out to be setting a trap of some sort?"

"Then we should both have interesting stories to tell."

They'd been driving for the better part of an hour. Pope was at the wheel of a car Michael had stolen, keeping diligently to the speed limit so as not to arouse the attention of the authorities. Michael rode shotgun – literally. He had the pistol aimed at Pope, but kept his eyes on the road – before them behind them, around them, for anything or anyone that might look as thought they were following them.

"You look tired," Pope said. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Mind if we don't talk about that?"

"I was simply making conversation."

"It's called psychological warfare. You talk about sleep. I get sleepy, and careless. The next thing I know I'm back in a group shower at Fox River looking at fifteen to twenty. No, let's just sit here and enjoy the silence, shall we?"

Silence reigned for only a few minutes before Pope decided on his next tactic.

"How is Lincoln?"

"He's…adjusting."

"To life on the outside?"

"To a life in hiding. And no, I won't tell you where he is."

"It's pretty ironic, isn't it? A little like going from one prison to another."

Pope looked at Michael, and thought he saw, as they passed under a bright highway lamp, a tear forming in Michael's left eye.

"You know," Pope said, "even if you were able to exonerate your brother, what about you? You walked into that bank. You fired a gun. You broke the law. You're not innocent."

"No, sir, I'm not."

"And even though you had what you felt were good reasons to break Lincoln out, the courts may still tack and extra ten years to your sentence. Maybe more, given the way you plotted and manipulated your way into Fox River."

Michael said nothing.

"Michael, I can help you. Let me go to the authorities. Let me explain to them…"

"You already said it sir, I'm not innocent. I know what I did. When this is over, when Lincoln is free, I will turn myself in, and serve whatever time I must. No more plotting, no more manipulating. I will do the time. Take the next exit."

They pulled off the road and onto a secluded area obscured by old trees. The night was moonless – once Pope extinguished the headlights there was not much to see. No stars, no moon, no light.

It was quiet as well, deadly quiet. Pope looked around, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but his night vision had never been that good.

Michael pulled a small flashlight from the dashboard and shined it on his watch.

"We're early," he said.

"I wish you'd reconsider…"

"Sssshhh." Michael turned the flash light off, sat it in the cup holder between them, and sat back, repositioning the gun so that even in the darkness, Pope knew it was there, aimed at something vital.

There was silence for a while, until Michael broke it with a question the Pope had been expecting to hear a lot earlier.

"How is Sara?"

"She's alive. That's about all I know."

"She doesn't keep in touch?"

"Why would she? I had to fire her."

"Does she blame me?"

"What do you think?" Pope asked, genuinely irritated.

"Has she left Chicago?"

"Not yet," said Pope, "she can't. She's on probation for that little stunt you convinced her to pull. Leaving the infirmary open for you … how did you manage to talk her into that?"

"She believed me. She believed in my cause, that my brother was innocent."

"Your little cause cost her her job. You nearly cost her her life. Do you have any idea how close she came to dying?"

"Yes," he said, barely a whisper. "I know."

"She tried to kill herself," Pope continued, pushing buttons he knew were guaranteed to shake Scofield's resolve.

"I know," said Michael, his voice wavering a bit.

"Almost killed herself over you. Your quest to clear your brother has claimed too many casualties, Michael. When will it all stop?"

Michael's resolve returned.

"When my brother can walk in the sun again, a free man."

Michael thought he had no more words for Pope on the subject. All he could think of at the moment was Sara. He tried to speak but the words were caught. He took a shallow breath and tried again.

"Would you give her a message for me?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, son."

Michael was staring ahead again, but this time, because there was something there, something moving. Lights appeared on the horizon. Headlights. Coming their way.

"Showtime," Michael whispered, and checked the gun.

Pope sat up straight, swallowed hard. His heart was beginning to race a bit. He was about to ask what he should be doing, but Michael was already climbing out of the car.

"Hit the ignition," Michael said before closing the door. "Keep the car running just in case something goes awry. If you reach under the passenger seat, you'll find a rather large folder. Evidence, everything we've been able to compile. If things go sour, I want you to get out of here. Don't worry about me. Just drive and keep driving until you're certain no one is following you."

"If you have everything you need, why this?"

"Because this man has promised me irrefutable proof. A smoking gun. I intend to have it."

"And if it's a trap?"

"Then my execution tonight will serve as more proof that my brother was set up. You're my witness."

"Michael, this is insane."

"Yes, it is. Keep your head down. Don't let him know it's you."

"Him? Who?"

Michael gave one last look and replied, "My father."

Michael pushed the door closed, then stepped away from the car as the other one approached. It stopped several feet away. The headlights died.

Michael's eyes took a moment to readjust to the darkness. The driver of the other car was probably counting on that.

A man wearing a baseball cap and a short tan jacket climbed out of the other car. Michael took a few steps closer, but kept a safe distance. He gripped the gun, his suddenly damp palm making the gun handle slick and slippery. He prayed silently that this man was indeed his father, and that this would be the reunion he often rehearsed over and over in his head, as a boy, even as a man. But if it turned out this was indeed a setup, and he had to use the gun, he prayed his shot would be sure. Gunplay wasn't something he was naturally comfortably with.

"Mikey?"

Michael had a vague memory of someone calling him that when he was little. His heart leaped, and his breathing became shallow for a moment.

"Step away from the car, put your hands up," Michael ordered.

The man complied.

"It's been a long time, son."

"How long?"

"You don't remember me at all, do you? It's okay. I'm not offended. You were a lot younger than Linc when I left. You shouldn't remember. I just want to tell you I'm sorry for the way things turned out."

Michael wanted so much for this man to be his father. He listened to his every word, almost forgetting why they were here, in the dark, in the first place. He shook his head to refocus and get to the task at hand.

"There's plenty of time to reminisce later," Michael said. "Right now, I need you to help Lincoln, like you promised. How do you propose to do that?"

"I know who's responsible for all this, and why."

"So do I."

"Yeah, but you can't prove it," the man said. "I can. You realize that once we cross this bridge, there's no going back. We're committed, no matter the outocme."

Michael was feeling anxious. Something wasn't right. Why was the man stalling?

"I have something," the man claiming to be Michael's father said, reaching behind his back.

"Slowly!" Michael reminded him, bracing his weapon in both hands.

"Easy!" the man said, continuing to reach. "You gotta see this. I guarantee you won't believe it…"

Henry Pope was watching, straining to listen. He could hear Michael, but not so much the man who was now reaching behind his jacket. Pope didn't like this. It smelled of a set up. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. But he would wait for some signal from Michael before he dared try anything.

"This is insane," he said under his breath. And waited.

"Slowly," Michael warned again.

And then all hell broke loose.

The man began firing. The strobe-like effect from the gun blinded Michael. He couldn't find his target so he just began firing wildly, and threw himself to the ground seeking cover. The man who was undoubtedly not Michael's father also stopped firing, so Michael quickly deduced that he had hit him, and that he was down.

Pope hit the accelerator and slammed toward the melee. He reached across and opened the passenger side door while moving, pushing it open as far as he could, nearly hitting Michael - on the ground, crawling - in the head. Then suddenly there was gunfire again. Pope cringed with each and every 'ping' as it hit the old car's fiberglass frame. A bullet nearly shattered the windshield, leaving a spider-web like pattern blossoming in the upper right hand corner.

"GET IN GET IN GET IN!" Pope yelled to Michael.

Michael crawled into the car and lay low in the seat. Pope threw the car into reverse and backed out quickly. He turned sharply, so sharply that the passenger door slammed shut on its own.

"Is he following?" Michael asked with a strained and tremulous voice.

Pope was visibly shaken, his hands trembling as he gripped the steering wheel, but it did not affect his ability to keep control of the car.

Pope spoke very quickly, adrenaline coursing through him in a way it hadn't for years, pushing the words from him.

"Not that I can see. I think you hit him! Did you hit him?"

"I don't know. I closed my eyes."

"You don't close your eyes when you fire a gun, boy!"

"I'll remember that next time," Michael said as he pulled himself up in the seat and turned to look out the back windshield. He watched for a moment, breathing hard.

"I don't see any lights," Michael said, " I don't think he's following us."

Michael settled back into the seat. It was then that the first wave of pain hit him, like a red-hot poker suddenly puncturing his left side over and over again. The same with his upper thigh. The pain was suddenly unbearable. He gasped, held his breath, and felt his side with a trembling hand.

Blood. Lots of it.

Michael suddenly felt light headed, and very afraid. He could hear his heart hammering at a wicked rate in his chest, as if it might at any moment explode. A shiver ran through him, and the pain began to grow worse.

He realized that Pope was talking to him, demanding answers, but he hadn't heard a word.

"I said," Pope yelled, "if he wasn't your father," Pope was yelling, "who the hell was he? Answer me, Michael!"

"Someone who doesn't want the world to know the truth," Michael said, and surreptitiously touched his side again, somehow hoping it wouldn't feel as bad this time. It was worse. He jumped, suppressing the urge to cry out. His dark blue shirt was quickly becoming soaked with his blood.

Pope checked the rear view mirror again.

"No one's following. Not yet. Whoever he was, he came alone, or he hasn't had a chance to alert anyone. You're one lucky sunnovagun, that's for sure. Look, Michael, you have to tell me what the hell's going on or I can't help you anymore. Where do we go now? What do we do?"

"Now… may not be… a good time," he said through tightly clenched teeth, practically grinding them. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to stay conscious and alert.

Pope looked at Michael and noticed that the young man had suddenly become oddly still..

"SCOFIELD?"

Michael stirred and audibly gasped at the sudden movement. He held up his bloodied hand.

"I'm shot," he confessed.

"Dear God," Pope said, and whipped the wheel to the right to pull over.

"No!" Michael cried. "Don't pull over. Don't stop the car. Don't stop."

"How bad?"

"I don't know. My side. And my leg. It hurts. A lot.…"

"County General's the nearest hospital. We can get there in - "

"NO!" Michael shot up straight in the seat. The movement sent shockwaves of pain through him. He raised the gun in a blood-streaked, trembling hand.

"No hospital."

"You're going to bleed to death, son. You need a hospital."

"No I can't. Not until Lincoln…not until he…"

Michael was beginning to lose consciousness. Pope was relieved. Once Michael was out cold he could get him to a hospital and have the authorities take it from there. Pope considered the headlines in the newspaper the next day – Former Warden Brings Escape Prisoner Back To Justice. He wanted to smile at the thought, but somehow he just couldn't. Not while the escaped prisoner sat bleeding next to him.

Michael rallied again and pushed himself up in the seat. This time he didn't gasp. He cried out.

Pope's heart started beating fast again.

"Look Michael, you need medical attention. You need a doctor! You need - "

"Take me to Linc."

"I don't know where he is. You have to tell me."

"Just drive. Keep driving. I'll tell you where to turn. I'll tell you…"

Michael began to drift off again.

"Scofield?"

Michael sank into the seat, unconscious.

Henry Pope had a decision to make.

He could take Michael directly to County General and let the drama play out to its natural conclusion.

Or, he could take Michael directly to the nearest police station and turn him over, and the Pope himself would soon be standing before a sea of news reporters and microphones and video cameras giving his side of the story within the hour. The DoC may even offer to restore Pope to his former position. He would be vindicated.

Or, he could help Michael and give him the chance he was so desperately willing to sacrifice his own life for - to clear his brother.

Pope reached over and pulled the gun from Michael's hand. Blood was smeared all over the handle. He put the weapon on the floor, near his own feet, within reach just in case he needed it later.

He reached over to touch Michael, to check his pulse. It felt weak and shallow. He shook the young man a bit, to see how deeply unconscious he was. He made a sound in response to the touch, but did not come to.

Then Pope reached behind Michael, and found what he was hoping to find, in the back pocket of the young man's pants.

A cell phone.

Pope flipped the phone open and prayed silently that there would be enough juice in the battery to support making at least one phone call.

There was.

Pope dialed the number pressing hard with a nervous thumb, eyes darting back and forth from the road ahead to the phone in his hand.

Three rings. He prayed she was home and would answer, that she would not let the call roll over into voice mail. Or that she wouldn't hang up when she heard his voice.

"Hello?" the sleepy-sad voice on the other end said.

"This is Henry Pope."

There was a pause. He thought she had hung up. Couldn't blame her at all if she had. But then he heard a harsh intake of breath before he heard her voice again.

"What do you want?"

"I know it's late, and I know I'm the last person you probably want to talk to right now, but I desperately need your help."

"It's two o'clock in the morning."

"I know and I apologize for disturbing you, but you have to know I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important. Please…"

"What is it?"

"I need you to drive up to my house on Lake Grey and meet me. Bring your medical bag. It's rather an emergency."

"I don't understand. Are you hurt? Is it your wife?"

"It's not me. It's… it's Michael Scofield. He's been shot."

There was a long silence.

"Sara? Sara, are you there?"

The line went dead.

He hoped it meant Dr. Tancredi didn't want to waste any time getting to Lake Grey.

Otherwise, Michael and he were in for a rather long, hard night. And it wasn't going to end well.

Pope tossed the phone onto the seat between them and fought in the darkness to see Michael's face. He was unconscious, that was certain. He was sweating profusely. And he was trembling.

Pope took the next exit, heading for home.

End chapter 1

Next Chapter: "Aiding and Abetting: Angel of Mercy"


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